


menagerie-a-trois

by mercuria



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beverly is a BAMF, F/M, I guess it's a triad with Brian firmly in the middle, Jimmy knows every animal fact, M/M, OT3, but so is Freddie, fluff?, kes$ha, team science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuria/pseuds/mercuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a possibility that Zeller's not as charming as he thinks he is. Fortunately for him, Beverly and Jimmy have his back anyway.</p>
<p>Some things just work.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[Set during mid-season-1.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	menagerie-a-trois

“You know,” Zeller says, with a smirk lifting the edges of his mouth, “I think this makes me the most popular guy on the team.” 

Beverly and Jimmy exchange a look.

“The most popular guy on the team is Will Graham,” Price points out, flipping to the next set of fingerprints. Not a match: he clicks past.

Beverly’s lips quirk at Zeller’s falling expression. “Sorry,” she nonpologizes, “but you’re not even the most popular guy in this room.”

“What?” he protests.

Beverly hooks a thumb in Price’s direction. “We like each other a lot more than we like you.” 

“It’s true,” Jimmy sighs, casting Beverly a regretful smile. He shrugs: _click, click,_ no match, and adds chipperly, “It’s just a shame I’m not into women.”

“Your loss,” Beverly breezes, arms folded, and she and Price exchange the sort of sweet little smiles that make Zeller fear in his soul that he’s let something run off the rails.

 

 

“But I’m at least a little bit charming, right?”

Price is peering at the crime scene through the distancing lens of a camera, framing his shot with a degree of care that is—frankly—not necessary. It makes Zeller smile a bit, despite himself and the urgency of the question.

Price glances at him sideways. “Charming?”

“Yeah,” Zeller says. “You know—or else you guys wouldn’t have …?”

Price gives him a pitying look.

“Brian, you’re a dear friend and colleague,” he says, “but you’re about as charming as a chimpanzee in the midst of a territorial dispute.”

“Hey!” Zeller protests. In Jimmyspeak, those are some harsh words.

“Of course you’re charming to _me_. But Agent Katz and I aren’t exactly ideal stand-ins for the general population,” Jimmy points out mildly. He shifts his weight, adjusting his grip on the camera. 

“Oh, so she’s _Agent Katz_ now.”

“Yesterday,” Jimmy continues as if he hasn’t spoken, “we spent three-and-a-half hours collecting human ash from the bottom of a well.” _Click,_ goes the camera. “We have macabre senses of humor, inappropriately grim tastes—”

“And now I’m grim. Great.”

“—So I don’t think ‘charming’ is really the word.”

Price lowers the camera and smiles at him, and Brian really, really hates what that does to his insides. He considers himself a pretty low-key guy to get along with, the kind who has an easy chemistry with more people than he doesn’t. But that warm, almost tangible glow you get when a particular somebody smiles at you in a particular way— 

He has to admit that part isn’t always so easy to come by.

And it only becomes more complicated when your colleagues are this freaking terrible.

 

 

Several nights later, Zeller protests, “I’m at _least_ good at sex, though.”

Beverly rolls over in bed, her lips quirking.

“Is that an observation or a question?” 

“Maybe tonight wasn’t my best work …“

“Well, you’ve done better,” Beverly admits, which derails Zeller completely.

“Everybody’s a critic,” he sputters. “What about _you_?”

“I didn’t know we were trying to figure out if I was good at sex,” she says, unruffled. After a moment she laughs, winds an arm around his shoulders, drops a kiss to his clavicle. “Um, it was fine. Great. On the upper end of good. What’s going on?" 

Zeller has to admit: nothing’s going on. Logically, that is. Logically nothing at all is going on, except that he’s sleeping with his two closest colleagues and would be objectively getting the best end out of that whole deal—by far—were it not for his suspicion that they both hate him.

So in the end, he shakes his head and mumbles something demurring. But Beverly Katz didn’t come this far in the FBI just because she looks great in a leather jacket.

“You know why we rile you up?” she murmurs into his ear.

Which feels pretty good, so Zeller doesn’t sound as flat as he wants to when he mumbles, “Why.”

“Because.” She kisses the side of his neck, and he can feel the shape of her smirk. “It’s _so_ easy.”

 

***

 

This is how they work:

Based on the evidence at hand, Price puts out theories—whimsical, fantastical, often straining the bounds of the possible. Zeller cuts them down with the incisiveness born of a dedication to Occam’s razor, shearing them as conservative as they’ll go. Katz adds back layers, folds in nuance, makes the evidence cohere in ways it didn’t before.

And Zeller’s with Price, and with Katz, although Price and Katz aren’t with each other. Everyone’s an adult, so everyone does what they want to, more or less. Jimmy points out relatively often that it’s clear that not everyone does, in fact, get to do what they want: the proof is wheeled into the Behavioral Science Unit every day.

 

***

 

Zeller doesn’t admit to Crawford about Lounds.

He does, however, admit to Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he’s not sure whether he means _sorry I told her about Graham_ or _sorry for sleeping with her_ or _sorry, because I knew you’d tense up like this when I told you and I just wanted to have a nice night, which is why there were so many of them before I told you._

“Brian,” Jimmy sighs. He knocks back the rest of his bourbon before he looks at him, reaching up gentle with fingertips to trace his cheek. 

“You’re a spoiled brat,” he says softly, affectionately even.

Maybe it’s messed up that he says it, and messed up that he presses in for a hungry, whiskey-tasting kiss the moment after, and messed up that Zeller allows him to do both.

He’ll admit that Jimmy may have had the very slightest of good points when he said the three of them were morbid.

 

“I don’t know why I did it,” Zeller groans to Beverly the next day. Confessing to her about Lounds is easier: He suspects he caught Jimmy in a downswing moment.

“I don’t know _how_ you did it,” says Beverly dryly, arms folded over her chest. “I barely have time to date just you.”

“I don’t think it’ll get out at this point—I mean, if you don’t tell Crawford. I don’t think she’ll say anything.” Zeller aims for self-assured, or failing that, matter-of-fact, but Beverly is wearing that expression she gets right before she tells him he missed a key piece of evidence. She nods.

“We’ll take care of it,” she says, squeezing his shoulder.

She’s disappeared around the corner before he can ask her what she means.

 

***

“Beverly Katz and Jimmy Price,” drawls Lounds, looking not at all surprised to see them in the greasy diner she’s haunting.

This one is on the outskirts of town—specifically, just outside of Trenton. A lot of local law enforcement knows Lounds’ face, so she’s become more circumspect (for the moment) regarding the FBI investigations she’ll dog. Still, she can be relied on to circle these gruesome cases like a crow.

Which may not be entirely coincidental, Price had said pleasantly to Katz as they approached the diner, since crows are significant in Celtic mythology: the Morrigan, a goddess of strife and warfare, was said to skulk over battlefields in the shape of a crow and preside over violent deaths.

Beverly had not been impressed with the information.

“Hello, Ms. Lounds,” Jimmy says, and his voice not pleasant now. It’s a very particular kind of even—the kind that means someone’s in trouble.

“You know, I can’t imagine what you’re doing here,” Lounds says, her lips pressed into a mock-frowning moue. “I’ve complied with all of your boss’ requests.”

“This is about Zeller,” Beverly says, flat.

Lounds flutters innocent lashes, but a slight, smug lilt curves the edge of her mouth.

“He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“We’d like it to stay that way,” Jimmy says, in that same not-pleasant tone.

Beverly’s arms are folded over her chest as she leans casually against the counter, not quite close enough to Lounds to touch her. “So stay away from him—physically, digitally, via the phone, on the grapevine. You got it?”

“Or else …?” Freddie Lounds asks, tone delicate. Her admittedly lovely blue eyes are wide. “I assume you’re here without Jack Crawford’s knowledge, which means you’re here without any of the FBI’s clout. So if I don’t agree, what happens then?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Jimmy spares her a small, spiteful smile. “This happens.”

He takes his phone from his jacket pocket and swipes across the screen, whereupon it begins to play:

_“Wake up in the mornin’ feelin’ like P. Diddy, got my glasses I’m out the door I’m gonna hit this city—“_

Lounds blinks, several times.

“Every night. 3:17 am,” Jimmy tells her, dead serious behind his smile. “No matter where you go, what lowbrow motel you check into, I will make it my personal mission to haunt you with this specter of over-synthesized pop. Do we understand each other?”

There’s a long pause, in which Beverly tries to figure out if she really did just hear that. Slowly, Lounds smiles back at him.

“It’s very nice,” she says in dulcet tones, “that you’re so protective of your coworker.” Something about the slight pause before ‘coworker’ makes Beverly distinctly uneasy. “Of course, you don’t have anything to worry about: I never reveal confidential sources.” 

 

Out in the parking lot, Beverly says skeptically, “Ke$ha?”

“Well,” Jimmy answers, innocent, “I had to find _some_ way to threaten her that nobody would believe if they saw it online.”

 

 

_BED-SWAPPING AT THE BUREAU_

_A mangled ménage cases doubts on Ripper investigation_

“This was taking care of it,” Zeller says in disbelief.

Beverly winces over his shoulder, where Price has pulled up Freddie Lounds’ latest opus.

“She worked in ‘swingers of the sciences’ _and_ ‘free love in the FBI,’” she murmurs ruefully. “I’m almost impressed.”

“This is awful,” Zeller complains. “She cites a study in here about comorbidity between polyamory and sadism and uses it to say that people who date around are more likely to—become forensic pathologists and stare at car crashes.” 

“Yeah,” Beverly snorts, “except she got the correlation all wrong.”

Price sidles in behind them. “ _With Katz, Price, and their third lover running amok in the Bureau, treating a mortuary slab like their own private dating service—_ oh, that makes it sound like we’re into the dark stuff, doesn’t it? _Jack Crawford’s judgment is once again called into question, and the grieving families of the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims continue to wonder if they will ever see justice for their loved ones.”_

Beverly sighs. “Of course she had to drag Jack into it.”

“This is amazing,” Price says. He shakes his head at the screen in something near reverence. “I’m printing this out and framing it.”

“Are you kidding?” Zeller demands. He is about to raise one of the numerous good counterarguments he has about that whole idea, when he frowns back at the article. “Hey—she uses your names like four times, but she never uses mine.”

“Huh,” Jimmy says. 

Beverly shoots him a look, but then Crawford appears in the doorway without warning, expression forbidding. He does that.

“You three,” he barks. “My office. _Now._ ”

 

Sitting principal’s-office-style in front of Jack Crawford is even more excruciating because of two things:

1)    They’re here due to the combined powers of weird of their apparently-freaky sex lives.

2)    Zeller knows for a _fact_ that something his boss read about him contains the word ‘lover.’

“Price, Katz,” Crawford growls. “Lounds _quoted_ you.”

“Misquoted us, really,” Jimmy says, his buoyancy only a little dimmed. “Though I did like the one that implied Beverly was telling her to keep her mitts off our man. _‘So stay away from him—you got it?’_ ”

This time, Crawford’s growl is a touch less metaphorical.

“You think this is a game?” he demands.

“Nobody thinks this is a game,” Zeller says, low.

“You talked to Lounds,” Crawford says, glower directed at Jimmy and Katz. “You provided her with ammunition to use against this department. And as representatives of my team, you made me look bad.”

Beverly’s jaw sets. “We didn’t tell her anything.”

“You don’t _need_ to tell her anything,” Crawford retorts, “that’s how she operates. Since none of you seems to grasp that, I don’t want to hear about any of you telling or not-telling Freddie Lounds anything again. Do I make myself clear?”

They mumble a bit, exchanging glances, but nod, and Crawford subsides a little—still angry, but somewhat mollified by the show of agreement.

“I let a lot slide in this place,” he says, pointing at them in warning. “Especially between the three of you. I want to be clear: it’s because you get me results. I have no investment in whatever’s going on between you three; I am not here to hold your hand or throw your coming out party or be your surrogate father.”

“Understood,” Zeller mutters.

“That’s fine, sir,” Beverly says evenly. Her eyebrows arch. “I think Zeller’s working out his father issues with Price, anyway.”

Zeller sputters. Price is suspiciously silent, but seems to be wearing a faint smirk. For a moment, Beverly thinks Crawford’s eyes are going to pop out of his skull.

Then, balefully, he snaps, “All of you get out!”

 

 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Alana Bloom says.

Beverly and Alana are sipping strong tea in the cafeteria at Quantico. Alana’s here for another meeting with Jack, something about the Ripper; Beverly’s trying to lie low until this Lounds-related storm passes.

“It’s not really that complicated,” Beverly says. “Not for me, anyway.”

Alana shakes her head, wry. “I can barely wrap my head around the idea of _one_ affair. Let alone two.”

“Zeller’s the only one who has to deal with two.” Beverly shrugs. “Or more, I guess—but between you and me, I think he’s figured out more than the two is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Alana’s expression doesn’t change, exactly, but there’s something speculative that comes into her face. Something _just_ a little curious.

“You didn’t read the article, did you?” Beverly asks.

“I’ve been keeping up with TattleCrime,” Alana answers evenly. Her lips quirk in apology. “Trying to make sure there aren’t any new articles about Will.”

“I’ve gotta admit, I was hoping Will would be the only one of us to end up there.”

Beverly keeps her tone wry, but part of her wants to know what Alana thinks. She believes Crawford when he says he cares only about results—that’s clear enough from the way he treats Will Graham, and it’s both comforting and not. Zeller and Price are biased, of course, and it’s not like she’s about to explain this situation to her family. Maybe in a couple years, after they’ve had awhile to suss it out.

If they last that long.

Alana just shrugs, slight, and takes a sip of her tea. “Well, I don’t think anybody’s going to believe that study about sadism and polyamory,” she says. “The sample size is too small, and there’s next to no attention to exogenous factors.”

Beverly smiles faintly.

“Besides,” Alana adds, shaking her head, “using it as a predictor of psychopathic sadism? Ridiculous.” Returning Beverly’s smile, she says, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

  

***

So there are a few rough patches here and there. But for the most part, this is how they work:

There is pizza on the coffee table in Beverly’s apartment, Discovery Channel on TV, and the three of them sprawled across her couch. Beverly has control of the remote; her knees are on Brian’s lap, her feet on Jimmy’s. Beverly’s head is on Brian’s shoulder, Jimmy’s fingers threading through Brian’s hair.

“Did you _know_ ,” Jimmy says, “that if one places even a small amount of liquor on a scorpion, it immediately goes mad and stings itself to death?”

“That can’t be true,” Zeller protests.

“Yeah, that one’s been debunked,” Beverly says lazily. “But scorpions do fluoresce; and entomologists speculate that the protein on their shells that causes the fluorescence also gauges UV." 

“Very good, Agent Katz,” Jimmy approves. “All right, how about … the Herald Moth bears a distinctive wing pattern that resembles a dying fire’s glowing embers.” 

Zeller glances sideways down at Beverly, who’s not in a good glance-exchanging position.

“A dying fire,” Beverly muses. “Pretty specific.”

“I’m going to say that one’s true,” Zeller says. “And did _you_ know that a group of eagles is called a convocation?”

“As it happens, I did.” Jimmy smacks a kiss to Zeller’s temple. “But I could hear you say it all night long.”

Zeller squirms a little in some form of protest, until Beverly elbows him in the ribs.

“Shut up,” she says, “you know you love it.”

The messed up part is, he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful roommate for offering encouragement and crucial Freddie Lounds quotes. (And also her byline.)
> 
> I want it to be known that after the events of this story, it goes wildly AU and nobody dies. They catch the Ripper! (It was all the puns.) Miriam Lass is okay, and so is Abigail. Hurray!


End file.
